


Make the Yuletide Gay

by DarylDixonGrimes



Series: Desus Holiday Bingo '17 [3]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Blowjobs, Creampie, Desus Holiday Bingo, Dom/sub, Fingers in the mouth, Hair Pulling, M/M, Praise Kink, Sub!Daryl, Top!Jesus, bottom!daryl, dom!jesus, face fucking, gagging, iiiif you squint a little, maybe there's a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 16:52:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13012056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarylDixonGrimes/pseuds/DarylDixonGrimes
Summary: There's no way in hell Daryl's wearing the ugly sweater Paul made him. No way. Not happening.Until Paul points out that things that go on must also come off.(Or some holiday Desus smut.)





	Make the Yuletide Gay

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJWmagickl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJWmagickl/gifts).



> For the "ugly sweaters" square.

Daryl’s almost used to cozy things by the time December rolls around.

It’s taken nearly a full year living with Paul in their small house on the edge of the woods to get there. A year away from his hometown. A year of shared breakfasts and soft morning kisses. A year of gasped swears and moans that rattle the walls.

The warmth of their fireplace spreads through the living room of the cabin, and not for the first time Daryl thinks about how much he loves it here. He loves the rustic log walls. He loves that he can walk right out the backdoor and disappear into four full acres of trees and brush. That he can kill their dinner and bring it home just as easily as Paul can slip in after work with a pizza.

He loves Paul.

Tonight won’t be their first time out together as a couple. Here, hundreds of miles away from faces that know him, Daryl has started a new life. A life where he willingly (if a little begrudgingly) accepts the occasional peck in the supermarket. A life where they quietly hold hands at the movies and do things like shop for a new sofa while they argue like an old married couple.

But tonight is special in a way all those other times weren’t.

Daryl steps closer to the fire and runs his fingers over two matching red and green stockings decorated with gold fabric paint. Paul had done them, and Daryl follows the elegant lines of his script, first over Paul’s name and then over his own.

It’s the first stocking he’s ever had, a fact that had Paul vowing to fill it to the brim before Christmas morning. And Daryl knows when Paul has an idea that he follows it through without fail, but he’d still argued that just having one was enough. Because the stocking may have been an impulse buy for Paul as he shopped for things to make his house feel like Daryl's home too, but to Daryl it represents something more.

It’s all the things he never thought he’d have until that chance meeting outside of a bar last New Year’s. Before he saw a pair of impossibly blue eyes that knocked all the wind right out of his chest so hard he couldn’t even pretend to be composed. At the time, he’d been embarrassed and maybe even a little belligerent, but Paul saw through that and poked and prodded at his walls until they all came tumbling down.

Gratitude. The stocking is also gratitude.

Behind him, Paul comes in from work, the air behind Daryl chilling momentarily as cold follows him in. Daryl smiles at the sound of him stomping mud out of his boots.

“You’re supposed to be getting ready,” Paul says, already across the small cabin, wrapping his hands around Daryl from behind. His nose nuzzles into Daryl’s neck before he replaces it with his lips, peppering soft kisses onto his skin.

“This is ready,” Daryl says back. Tara had invited them over for a Christmas party that night, hosted by her and Rosita. She promised them it would be very merry and very gay. She definitely didn’t mean that latter bit in the traditional sense.

“Did you even read the invitation?”

Oh Daryl had read it and promptly ignored it, because there was no chance in hell. He turns around to face his boyfriend who’s currently shrugging out of a dark black trench coat. He throws it over the couch.

“I might’ve.”

“Then you know you aren’t ready,” Paul says, smiling at Daryl in a way that Daryl knows means he's already lost this argument.   
  
“I’m dressed,” Daryl says, pulling at his flannel. “I’m even wearin sleeves.”

“Nope.” Paul grabs his hand and pulls him toward their bedroom, and Daryl reluctantly follows like a toddler being forced into time out. Inside, he leans against the wall and crosses his arms while he watches Paul pull a storage box out from under the bed.

The second he opens the lid, Daryl says, “nope.”

“I made these the other day when you were at work. I think they fit the parameters.”

“Nope,” Daryl says again. He can’t even tell what the sweater on top looks like, but there’s tinsel garland and little glitter puff balls everywhere. He is not doing it. He’s not.

“You haven’t even seen it. This one’s yours.” Paul picks the red sweater up by the shoulders and turns it around in the air so Daryl can see it. The whole thing looks like Santa had every single one of his elves personally take a shit on it. The garland wraps down both sleeves. The puffs dot the whole thing in silver and red and green and gold. Paul reaches up under the hem and does something, and then the damn thing is actually twinkling. The sweater fucking lights up, the lights outlining huge gold letters that spell out “Make the Yuletide...”

His boyfriend expects him, Daryl Dixon, to wear a goddamn light up Christmas sweater.

Daryl can’t say anything. He just stares as Paul lays it down and picks up the second. His is green and just as wild. Garland wraps around the hem and the neck. More puff balls. Instead of gold letters, he’s used every color puff paint to spell out a single word, “gay.” No not even, “gay,” because they’re in giant block letters. “GAY,” his sweater says.

“And this one is mine,” Paul says, looking pretty self-satisfied with his handiwork. And okay, Daryl has to admit the combo is actually pretty clever. But he can’t  _say_  that and be surly at the same time. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and shakes his head.

“No way in hell,” Daryl says. And Paul actually pouts at him. It’s a fake pout, but it’s still so impossibly cute that Daryl wants to melt to the floor.

“C’mon,” he says. “It’s an ugly sweater party. That’s the point.”

“You’ll have to kill me and take my corpse. I ain’t wearin it.”

Paul picks up the red monstrosity with one hand and crosses the room. His free arm goes on the wall by Daryl’s face. Impossible blue eyes burrow into him, burning a trail from Daryl's face to the pit of his stomach to his cock.

“I could order you,” Paul says quietly, in a way that makes it feel like every word is trickling down Daryl’s spine.

“I could finally use that damn safe word,” Daryl counters, already looking at Paul’s mouth, already thinking that the party is actually a stupid idea and they should just stay home and do something festive of their own like see how many candy canes can fit up Daryl’s ass.

Paul smiles.

“New tactic,” he says, slipping a thigh between Daryl’s legs and gently nudging it against his now half-hard erection. “You wear the sweater and I promise to take it off you later.”

It’s low, so low. But the look on his face says Paul knows he has him cornered and Daryl can already feel his arms and chest itching from the damn red knit.

“What do I get now?” Daryl asks, attempting to negotiate. Paul smirks, eyes glinting and damn’t, do they  _really_  have to go to this party?

“A beautiful sweater handmade with love.” He shoves the thing against Daryl’s chest and walks away, unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it aside so he can shrug into his festive creation.

Grumbling, Daryl takes off the flannel and pulls on his half of what feels a hell of a lot like some kind of Christmas couples costume. He looks down at his chest, at the twinkling multicolored lights.

“I hate you a lot right now considering I love you more than anything.”

“That might actually be the sweetest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Paul says, digging his keys out of his pocket while he crosses the room again. “And you can have this too.”

Without any other kind of warning, Paul shoves him roughly against the wall and covers his mouth with his. His tongue swipes in deep and ravages Daryl’s. Two hands squeeze Daryl’s ass and he can feel the car keys digging into his skin but he doesn’t care. Outside, the car starts beeping and honking, lights flashing through the window.

Paul laughs into his mouth even while he rolls his hips once, forcing Daryl to moan softly at the friction. Then he lets go and hits the panic button to shut off the alarm.

“Come on.” He grabs Daryl’s hand and pulls him out to the car.

* * *

Itchy blinking sweater and desperate need aside, Daryl has a good time. The gathering is small with lots of some kind of punch that gets Daryl good and drunk pretty fast. It’s a comfortable group and there’s mistletoe everywhere, which means he gets his tongue in Paul’s quite a few times. And they don’t seem to be the only two enjoying themselves. Tara and Rosita in their matching elf sweater dresses seem to be making it some kind of competition to see how often they can trap each other under one of the clumps. Aaron and Eric have taken one whole clump to themselves, just using it as an excuse to fake surprise and make out whenever the hell they feel like it. Michonne and Andrea are a little more muted, but they still kiss here and there as they get stuck underneath some.

They play games that have even Daryl laughing while Paul attempts to move a Christmas present across the room using only his knees. They tell stories and talk about creepy (and not-so-creepy) Christmas-themed pornos. At some point Eric mentions that he was once gifted a peppermint striped butt plug at a white elephant party.

“And that’s how we met,” Aaron jokes, sending everyone giggling again.

And by the time it’s over, with those who need them calling Lyfts or hitching rides home with the ones who stuck to water or sparkling grape juice, Daryl’s glad they went. He smiles over at Paul and watches him watch the road, his eyes still sober and alert.

God, his boyfriend is so pretty.

He lets his eyes roam over every inch of him, unguarded as they make their way to firm hands gripping the steering wheel, to slender legs bent over the driver’s seat, to those signature boots that have always been some kind of odd turn on for him.

He remembers the promise Paul made him before they left the house. He smiles more.

“What?” Paul asks him when he finds him staring, the car idling at a red light.

“Just thinkin.”

“And what are you thinking about?” Paul asks, pulling forward when the light turns green.

“How good your dick’s gonna feel in my ass in a minute.”

Daryl can count on one hand how many times he’s caught his boyfriend off guard since they got together, which is why it’s pretty damn satisfying when Paul chokes on his inhale and starts coughing. It’s not like he didn’t know they were gonna fuck considering they planned it beforehand. But Daryl’s lips aren’t usually so loose.

Paul regains his composure quickly, clearing his throat.

“There’s lube in the glove box,” he says calmly, throwing on his blinker and waiting for traffic so he can turn. “You should get ready.”

Well, damn.

Daryl flicks the little handle to open it, digging around insurance cards and extra fast food napkins. He remembers riding Paul’s dick in this very seat after they first got together, how it burned from using nothing but spit and pre-cum but how he didn’t care because it meant he’d still feel it and know it was real in the days before he could see him again. He wonders if that’s when Paul started keeping lube in his vehicle. And if so, he wonders why they haven’t fucked in it again.

Daryl curls his fingers around the full bottle and pulls it out, already excited about the prospect of some kind of stimulation. He unbuttons his jeans and pushes them down to his ankles, leaving his boxers on because there’s still a chance someone might catch a glance of more than they want to see. He looks at the tent in his shorts and considers giving it a rub. And he swears sometimes that Paul can hear his thoughts.

“Prep only, Daryl,” he says sternly. “That cock is mine.”

“Whatever you say.”

Daryl grabs the handle on the side of his seat and pulls to lean it back, kicking at his jeans until one leg comes free. He throws a boot up on the dash and opens the lube, slicking his fingers.

Next to him, Paul slows the car to a stop at another red light before looking over at him, hungry and eager to watch. Sometimes Daryl’s sure there’s nothing Paul likes more than watching him touch himself. It might even take precedence over being inside of him.

Eyes locked on his boyfriend’s, Daryl slips his hand into his boxers, moving it lower and lower until he brushes against his hole.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” Paul says, eyes still on him, and there’s no mistaking the order. The light is green now, but they’re alone. 

“Just touchin,” Daryl says. “Don’t think one’ll be hard.”

“Do one then.”

Daryl does one, sliding it in, gasping at the slight burn of resistance.

“Breathe,” Paul says. Daryl takes control of his lungs, inhaling deeply. Next to him, Paul shifts, grabbing at the hem of his shorts and doing his best to peer inside. He must find what he’s looking for, because he hums quietly in approval.  

Behind them, another car rolls up. Daryl can tell in the bright lights illuminating the roof of the car. Paul turns away from him and pulls the car away from the light.

“Tell me when it’s two.”

Daryl tells him when it’s two, panting quietly while he moves them in and out of his body, willing his ass to open up to he can take Paul in the second they're home. And if watching Daryl touch himself is maybe Paul’s favorite thing, having Paul completely buried in him is maybe Daryl’s.

The car ride stretches on, and Daryl can tell when they’ve driven out of town because the blur of street lamps turns into long patches of blackness broken up by occasional Christmas lights. His body coaxes open, lube slicking the hot walls inside of him.

He pulls his hand free to get more slick and dips it back under the elastic.

“I’m goin for three,” Daryl says.

“Thank you,” Paul says. “We’re almost home.”

Daryl pushes the third finger past the ring of stubborn muscle, muttering “it’s in.”   

Paul doesn’t say anything this time. Daryl’s reward for following instructions is a warm hand laid across the cotton of his boxers, kneading his erection once, twice through the fabric. Daryl moans, then whines when Paul draws it away.

Outside the window, he sees a familiar tree, branches spreading to reach out over the road. It’ll be seconds before Paul pulls into their long, winding driveway. Seconds more before he parks the car.   
  
Daryl takes those seconds to fuck his hole as loose as possible, three fingers moving and moving until he can actually hear the noises of them displacing lubricant as they go.   
  
Paul stops the car in front of the log cabin and shifts it into park, killing the engine. He doesn’t say anything for a moment, the car quiet save the slick noises emanating from somewhere between Daryl’s thighs.

“You have no idea how fucking good that sounds,” he finally sighs, turning to look at Daryl. “And how much it fucking pains me to tell you to stop.”

It pains Daryl too, but he does stop, sliding his fingers out of the warmth of his own body and wiping them clean on his underwear. He waits, because Paul hasn’t told him to do anything else.

“I’m going to go unlock the front door since you aren’t exactly dressed,” Paul says. “You can follow me once it’s open.”

Daryl nods and watches him get out of the car. Under the yellow light on their small porch, he fumbles with his keys. Daryl goes ahead and slips his jeans off his other leg, gathering them in one hand, the other poised on the door handle, waiting to bolt for the house as soon as he can. The front door opens and Paul turns on a light.

Bracing himself for the chill, Daryl slides out of the car and jogs across the yard, hissing at the cold against his legs. And he knows he looks like a fucking moron when he runs, especially now with lube slick between his ass cheeks, but it’s worth it when he finds Paul inside, sweater already off and thrown over the back of the couch, the front of his gray jeans open, his hand kneading at the outline of his own erection through his underwear.

How he always looks so goddamn good, Daryl will never know.

“Come here, you good, good boy,” Paul says. And Daryl almost preens at the words. He drops his jeans to the floor and walks to his boyfriend, happy when warm hands find his face and pull him in for a kiss. It smolders at first, Paul rolling their lips together slowly and deliberately, his tongue rhythmically sliding along Daryl’s. Swipe after swipe of their mouths and it’s like Paul is slowly blowing on the fire and adding kindling, building it up until it catches fire, until Daryl’s moaning into his mouth, Paul’s fist buried in dark hair, tugging roughly. 

Paul walks him backwards, which is confusing as hell for a moment because their bedroom is the other way and all that’s backwards is the front door and they surely aren’t gonna fuck in the freezing cold on the front porch. 

But they take a turn. Paul stops them in front of the front window, in front of…   
  
The hand in Daryl’s hair hangs on, tugging on it like a leash, guiding Daryl to his knees right there on the tree skirt. And sweet Christ, Paul is going to fuck him under the goddamn Christmas tree.

“You dirty fuck,” Daryl says. And Paul slips two fingers between his lips, forcing them across his tongue and down his throat until Daryl gags, slobbering around them.

“It’s fitting really,” Paul says. “You’ll always be my favorite gift to unwrap.”

And it should be corny and cheesy and Daryl should be teasing him about it, but the tone of his voice makes the words anything but. They drip with desire, and Daryl can almost feel it falling on him like hot wax. He sucks eagerly on the digits between his lips until Paul pulls them free.

“Open your mouth.”

Daryl licks his lips and spreads them apart, watching while Paul pushes his jeans farther out of the way, fishing in his underwear for his cock. And Daryl’s seen it a hundred times but it never fails to excite him when Paul first exposes his erection, the reddened tip, the soft silky skin, the beading pre-cum near the tip that tells him just how much he’s wanted.

Paul takes his hair again, bringing him forward. And Daryl scoots on his knees until he can dart his tongue out to lap at his boyfriend’s desire. Paul lets him, lets him run his tongue in the slit until there’s nothing else to taste, and then he resumes his pull, forcing Daryl’s face onto his cock until it hits the back of his throat, until Daryl gags around him and moans because there’s no better feeling in the world than choking on Paul’s cock. Other than actually being fucked by it.

And Paul loves Daryl’s blowjobs, so much so that sometimes he doesn’t even touch him other than light brushes in his hair. But sometimes he loves fucking his face too. And Daryl’s just as fine with both. This, it seems, is one of those times. Paul’s other hand joins the first until he has full control of Daryl’s head. He holds it steady and rocks his hips and all Daryl can do is curl lips over teeth and concentrate on keeping his throat open.

He gags anyway, over and over until there are tears in his eyes. And he loves every goddamn second.

And he knows Paul will repay him somehow. Sometimes he thinks the man keeps some kind of running blowjob tally in his head, but it always comes back around. Soft languid lips helping him finish waking up in the morning, Paul dropping to his knees in the shower, Paul crawling to him under the dinner table.

And Daryl’s tried to tell him he doesn’t care, that he fucking loves having his cock in his mouth and down his throat, but he also likes that Paul is so determined to reciprocate if he doesn’t get to it in the moment. It’s one of the many ways he knows he actually cares about him.

Daryl blinks away the water, feels it run down his face.

“Look at me, good boy,” Paul says, pulling him off his cock. Daryl looks up, bleary-eyed and panting and so turned on he feels like he’s dying.

“Do you want me to fuck you now?” Paul asks, his voice seemingly calm but still so hot that Daryl wants to turn over and wiggle his ass at him in response.

“Mhm.”

“Stand up and finish getting undressed,” Paul says, and Daryl will never be over how authoritative he can sound while speaking so softly and evenly. “Did you bring the lube inside?”

Daryl shakes his head, already getting to his feet.

“I’ll be right back.”

Daryl takes to the task of undressing, kicking off his boots and peeling off his socks. The sweater goes next, and he flings it at the couch near Paul’s. The underwear go last, slipped down to his ankles and kicked so that they go spinning across the floor toward the coffee table.

When Paul comes back, he’s naked too, stroking his cock, the lube on it catching the light.

“Get on your knees for me, good boy,” he says. “Head down, ass up.”

Daryl drops back onto the tree skirt and turns over. Artificial branches tickle his back as he moves forward, his arms on either side of the metal support pole. A bottle of lube drops beside him, just in case they need more.

Paul drops too, his hand warm pressure on the small of Daryl’s back.

“You are still the most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” Paul says, slipping fingers inside of him, probably to see if Daryl’s still slick enough, if he really did get himself good and open. “You did a good job, Daryl.”

Daryl closes his eyes, shivering pleasantly at the words.

The head of Paul’s cock ghosts over his entrance, once, twice, three times before he steadies it, before Daryl feels the pressure of it easing inside of him. He waits, holding his breath, staring at a silver bauble hanging from one of the lower branches. He can vaguely see a reflection of Paul behind him, most of him hidden by branches, but there are still things visible—a single hip, half a thigh, his lower arm—all distorted in the shiny plastic.

When Paul’s flush against him, Daryl finally exhales. Paul strokes his hand up and down Daryl’s spine. They both wait.

“Can you reach the lights?” Paul asks, finally breaking the silence that had otherwise been nothing but slow breathing and Daryl’s soft panting. And Daryl can reach them actually, so he flips the switch on the surge protector attached to the Christmas tree. White twinkling lights illuminate his hands, then go off, then illuminate them again.

“Kinky bastard,” Daryl mutters, and Paul laughs.

“You say that like it’s a description applicable to only one person in the room.” And again, Paul has no right to make such a sentence sound like fucking porn, but he does.

Daryl squirms.

“Are you ready for your reward now?” Paul asks, already moving both hands to Daryl’s hips.

“Mhm.”

And Daryl feels Paul backing up, the warmth pulling away from his ass, the emptiness following the retreat of his cock. He whimpers even though he knows it’ll be back, even though he knows he’s probably minutes away from seeing twinkling lights that have nothing to do with the damn tree.

He sighs in relief when Paul bucks forward again, filling him once more. How the beautiful fuck can control himself and be so slow and deliberate, Daryl will never be able to fathom. Because all he ever wants to do is buck back against him until he cums everywhere. He tries it now, so desperate to feel the beginning of that slow build toward oblivion.

“Stop that,” Paul says firmly.

“Then fuck me harder already,” Daryl says, stopping but not happy about it. “Need you.”

“Do you?”

“Always.”

“Tell me again.”

“I need you,” Daryl says.

“Use more words than that,” Paul says, still rolling his hips at a pace that makes Daryl want to whine low.

“Need you to rail my ass like you promised,” Daryl says. “Please.”

“That’s my good boy,” Paul says, squeezing his hips. The rock of his body moves from painfully slow to the next gear. Then the next. He moves one hand to Daryl’s back and forces him even lower. Daryl slides off his elbows, extending his arms across the golden fabric beneath him, pressing his cheek against the support pole. The change in angles has him spitting out soft moans that give way to louder groans as Paul’s ever-increasing rhythm sees him fisting into the tree skirt. The silver bauble sways. The lights keep twinkling. 

“Fuck.”

“That is what you asked me for,” Paul says, struggling to get the words out because he’s panting with the effort of sliding inside, the dull slap of his hips against Daryl’s ass punctuating each breath.

Daryl groans, the pressure inside of him building into something that’s less quietly pleasant and more soul-destroyingly good. He loves Paul. He loves him and he loves his fucking cock.

“Tell me how I feel, good boy.”

“Good,” Daryl sighs, struggling to say more words, because he knows Paul wants more words. “Fuck yeah.”

“I guess that will do.”

One of Paul’s hands slips around his waist, swiping over the leaking head of his cock and trailing wet down his length.

“I want you to cum on the tree skirt,” Paul quietly instructs. “When you’re ready.”

Daryl bites back the urge to ask where the hell else exactly he would cum in this position if not there, because Paul’s hand is on his cock and the last thing he wants him to do is punish him for backtalk by taking it away.

Pressure mounts, building and building from two different sides, and Daryl presses his face against the floor, drooling onto the tree skirt, swearing so hard he’s spitting. And God he’s so sweaty and everything is Paul and Paul is everything.

“I’m cumming,” he says, because he’s supposed to tell him. He’s always supposed to tell him. And sure enough, there it is, his cock twitching all over the fabric.

“That was a very, very good thing to say, Daryl,” Paul says, still stroking him, milking out every single drop while Daryl squirms beneath him. And Daryl’s next moan sounds more like of a sob, but it always does at this point because it’s almost too damn good to process. Above him, Paul doesn’t stop until he’s sure he can’t get anything else out of him even if he tries. He lets go, smearing cum across Daryl’s hip when he puts his hand back there.

And sometimes it’s like Paul’s just waiting for him to finish, like he’s clamping down on his own need to cum until he’s sure he’s satisfied him. One thrust, and then another and Paul’s groaning in that delicious way that he does, a sound that’s imprinted on Daryl’s mind to be called forth on those rare occasions that he jerks himself off while he’s home alone.

When Paul pulls out, cum follows, dripping out of Daryl's fucked-loose hole. And whether Paul plans to wash it or not (and surely he does), the tree skirt is never going to look the same to Daryl’s eyes. Not after this.

Paul rolls onto his back beside him, reaching over to stroke Daryl’s stomach because it’s the easiest thing to reach. Still catching his breath, Daryl stays down like he’s doing some kind of Christmas tree yoga, his limbs too fucked out to move just yet.

He focuses on the air going in and out of his lungs, on Paul’s fingers drawing abstract patterns on his skin. Finally, he slides out from under the branches, sitting up on his knees and looking down at the lithe, slender body on the floor beside him.

“Let’s take a shower,” Paul suggests, reaching up for his hand, and Daryl agrees, letting him drag him to the bathroom and wash away cum and lube and sweat under the warm spray, all while they kiss and mumble things like “I love you” and “thank you” and “that damn sweater is still awful.”

After, they walk the sort length from bathroom to bedroom, towels slung low across their hips. Then they drop them and crawl into bed naked, curling up beside each other, bare skin pressed against bare skin.

“So how are you liking your first real Christmas so far?” Paul asks after they settle, softly stroking Daryl’s bicep with his fingertips. 

“Think I’d like to have more,” Daryl answers. “A lot more. With you.”

“I think I’d like that too.” Paul kisses his shoulder, once, twice, three times. “Ugly sweaters and all.”

Daryl laughs.

"Yeah, don't push it."

But he knows damn well that he would wear another fifty years’ worth of hideous sweaters if it meant spending them with Paul.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I welcome asks, messages, and invitations for lifelong friendship at DarylDixonGrimes on tumblr.


End file.
